


therizó

by vorokis



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anatomical Descriptions, Biting, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Gore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24131260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorokis/pseuds/vorokis
Summary: It was the Qlipoth's doing, of course. Even the felling of the demon tree hadn't killed the last of its ensanguined demands, and when a little itch had made itself known at the back of Vergil's throat, a faint emptiness starting up in his belly, he'd known what it meant.(Or: this time it's Vergil thirsting for Dante—literally.)
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 165





	therizó

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laireshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/gifts).



> a birthday gift for the incredible, incomparable Laire, who is an absolute blessing in my life, so naturally I gotta give her sexy blood-drinking fic to show my appreciation. (yes, this is a horrendously late gift again; yes, the next birthday fic I'm already writing is also going to be a horrendously late gift; yes, I can never do anything on time and you're absolutely right to judge me.)
> 
> title is the Greek word _therizó_ , meaning 'to reap'.

It was the Qlipoth's doing, of course. Even the felling of the demon tree hadn't killed the last of its ensanguined demands, and when a little itch had made itself known at the back of Vergil's throat, a faint emptiness starting up in his belly, he'd known what it meant. 

He'd known what had survived in him as the itch turned into a firmer scratch and the emptiness into pangs and his thoughts were distracted, disordered, his eyes defying him to seek out Dante instead—Dante's skin, its softness, its vulnerability. The wretched _hindrance_ it was, keeping Vergil from the blood rushing beneath in soft thunder roars, and the feeble shield it would be against his teeth if he chose to bite in, taste _,_ sate himself at last—

He still remembers it with perfect clarity: biting into the coruscating red-pink, jelly-like flesh of the Qlipoth's fruit, iron rolling thick over his tongue as the lakes of human blood that had braided together to form the fruit spilled back into lakes within his mouth. Those mornings he wakes with his fangs already buried in Dante's body, his mouth coated with blood that tastes just as much of the Underworld's charred air and still-burning black fires as it does of luscious honey and wine.

Vergil feels no disgust towards it, this inherited blood-thirst. It isn't dissimilar from all the other savage urges that have been beating their atavistic pulse in him since childhood. He walks in a world populated by a prey species; one side of him will always crave the spilling of their blood in some shape or form. It will always know how to make it happen even when he won’t act on it. This is mere nature at work. 

Wanting Dante is also mere nature at work, Vergil thinks, looking over his brother who lies naked, languid, open-thighed beneath him on the bed like a ripe harvest free for the taking.

Dante's moonlit skin glows softly pale except for where the slants of his cheekbones are brushed with color and the temptation of his mouth is pink and the red of his thick cock curves heavily over his belly. All the vulnerable junctions of his body are on display. All the places where he would bleed the quickest, the hardest.

Vergil's mouth is dry. He wants it drenched in Dante. 

At times, when the blood-thirst is at its most vicious, roaring relentlessly in his every tooth, vertebra, atom, satisfying it can only ever be brutal. It can only ever be gouging at Dante with fangs, reducing him to a length of bright, red, perforated skin. Each hot burst of his blood is a stream of liquid heaven; each greedy swallow sets off rapturous explosions. Vergil drinks half-mad with the need, gorging himself till not even Dante’s healing can keep up and he turns limp beneath Vergil's mouth, hand weakly curled in Vergil's hair as if inviting him to continue feeding anyway. 

But the other times, the times when the ever-present hunger hasn’t yet set off chaos in his mind, the feeding becomes a lavishing. It unfolds leisurely, quietly. There is intimacy in the violence.

Vergil skims his lips over soft skin, inhaling the tantalizing scent of the blood beneath, listening to the way it sings to him in beckoning croons along every artery and vein. The scrape of his teeth is initially delicate, teasing. When it deepens into a true bite, his fangs sink in gradual and tender, and when he finishes, he soothes, sucking at the closing wounds, lapping up stray blood. 

Dante doesn't tense or resist. He simply lets out a breath, a sound of twined relief and contentment because he has a hunger of his own now, one that sees Dante craving to be bitten just as much Vergil craves to bite him. It pleases Vergil to see it. To know that even in this, they’ve grown compatible as if a kind of evolutionary necessity has and will always be at play between them, forever ensuring them as perfect complements. 

On these nights, Dante has a patience to him that he rarely displays elsewhere. There are no demands for Vergil to move faster, touch him more, touch his cock, make him come. His body does all the speaking in sinuous arches, eager shivers. The darkness of his half-lidded eyes is flecked with orange-gold, filmed with a haze as if he's in the grip of some intoxication.

He's enticement. Eroticism. A full-body invitation that Vergil accepts gladly, his teeth piercing again into the meat of Dante’s calf, then the muscle of his thigh where the femoral flows. When his brother reaches down, Vergil drinks from both wrists, swallowing the tart taste of ulnar, median, radial. At Dante’s torso, he scores his fangs down the center, right through the pre-come pooling on Dante’s belly so that it runs into the fresh gashes, so that it stings, and _because_ it stings, Dante moans low and hushed. Lifts his hips to offer himself again.

Graciously, Vergil obliges, dipping his smile in blood and come.

It's easy enough to dapple Dante's front with bruises; it's even easier to turn his sleek body over onto its hands and knees. He goes with the gracefulness of rolling shadows, presenting the smooth flow of his spine, the smooth curve of his ass, and Vergil presses tongue and teeth to it all as the air around them continues swelling with rich arousal and richer blood. 

“Like you can’t get enough of me,” Dante says, shaking as his body tries to heal while Vergil only makes it bleed more. 

"I could live on you,” Vergil replies, licking back up the dip of Dante's spine, nosing past the curtain of his hair to find his ear. His cock glides over the cleft of Dante's ass, smearing its way up till it's settled against the small of Dante's back. “You're all I need to survive. Your blood would sustain me for centuries.”

“Don’t," Dante gasps. "Don't say that if you're not gonna do it.”

“Why such little faith, brother?"

" _Vergil_." Raw-voiced, yearning. 

Vergil splays an avaricious hand over what lives in Dante's chest, what thuds there loudly, unabashedly giving itself away to him. "You act as if I haven't already cut your chest open once and fed on your heart's blood.”

It's one of Vergil's most beloved memories. Goes straight to his fucking cock every time he recalls the fist-shaped body of his brother's heart sitting like a summer fruit in the bone-bowl of Dante's chest, waiting for Vergil with impatient, furious pulsations—a thing as needy as its owner. One nick and all Vergil had known was bliss, the aorta relinquishing to him its copious sweetness. 

Dante, beautiful, greedy, perpetually wanting creature that he is, lets loose a rough, breathy sound as if it's a beloved memory of his, too, and he wants Vergil to cut him open right there and then. He turns his head, Vergil's blood-scented breath fanning over Dante's lips, and Vergil watches as his little brother inhales that breath and the inhalation seems to sink into Dante's veins like a drug. His eyes of fire flicker. His lips part, seeking.

Vergil understands. He leans in, slides his tongue past the open seam of Dante's mouth, licks up the throaty little moan his brother makes. The kiss is slow, careful, drawn out: a languorous tangle of their tongues designed to let his brother savor the taste of himself. Human blood calls to Dante just as it calls to Vergil, even if Dante likes to pretend otherwise, putting on a lie Vergil has never comprehended, has never cared for, but here in these moments at least there is no pretending. Here, Dante is instinct and animal and true, unable to keep away from Vergil's mouth and the blood smudging slick between their lips, turning their sharing more decadent for it. 

They fall back down to the bed, Dante's hands cradling Vergil's face tight. His tongue scrapes hard against Vergil’s teeth to summon up a fresh well of blood that gets trapped sticky-wet between their mouths before Dante sucks it away, cuts himself again, licks it up. Does it over and over and over, tasting what he can desperately, helplessly, groaning obscenely as if his blood in Vergil’s mouth is the same as a hand curled around the cock.

Vergil allows it for as long as his brother seems to need it. When Dante finally finds the strength to part, his crimson-dyed mouth is a vivid gash cut into the ivory of his face.

"You should always be this way," Vergil says, touching that beautiful mouth. He strokes his thumb against the notch above Dante’s upper lip and along the soft line of the lower. He feels the heat of its breath and smells the glorious blood in it.

Dante turns into Vergil's fingers, brushing a kiss into the pads before catching them in his hand. A coy smile emerges to dangle from one hinge of his mouth. He shoots Vergil a smoldering glance, asking, "Don't you want the real prize now?"

Vergil's eyes fall at once. They fall onto paradise, the long, soft, irresistible length of it: Dante's throat.

"Yeah, you do," Dante says huskily, encouraging Vergil's hand to move lower. "You know it's all yours." 

It's Vergil's enough that there’s a slight interruption in the texture of the skin there, a shadow of his hunger left behind where Dante's throat has felt his teeth too often to fully heal anymore. Vergil seeks it out, feels its barely-there presence. Feels pride and pleasure on a base level that the mark is there at all and he is the one to have put it into place. 

An abrupt shift of movement comes from above, a shift of light—Vergil glances back up to catch the molten gaze of Dante's demon leaving his eyes like flames suddenly going out.

Then: Dante tilting his head back, and suddenly Vergil sees nothing else, knows nothing else, but that pale, pristine column, his brother conquering his own demon for Vergil and holding it at bay to offer up his throat.

The hunger in Vergil _roars_. It surges up, frenzied, possessed, like it wants to riot its way out of him, clawing a stinging path from his belly to batter fiercely against the confines of his mouth. Each angry roil of it demands blood, demands Dante, little brother, mate. _Prey_. 

Vergil answers in a lightning flash of fangs. Dante’s throat gives way like the finest of fabric, his blood satin as it comes out.

Gasping sharply, Dante tangles his fingers into Vergil’s hair as if to keep him in place, keep them both in place, connected forever by mouth to skin, teeth to blood. It's entirely needless. There is no other conceivable place for Vergil to be but right here, drinking and groaning and shivering as all the places where Dante's blood meets his crackle and flare up, sparking music in his body the same way the Qlipoth's fruit had made every hidden crevice of him come screaming alive.

He feels more than hears the moans rumbling through Dante's throat, the fragments of them disjointed as if they're breaking open under the pressure of Vergil's fangs, and yet Dante seems to find only euphoria in the pain. All he does is lift his chin, offer up his bitten throat some more, hungry to be fed on, and so Vergil gives them both what they need and _feeds_.

The zinging blood here seems to taste sweeter than anywhere else in Dante’s body, some kind of nectar and ambrosia that ancient gods would have killed for, that Vergil would kill any and all gods for, ancient or new. It’s nothing at all for him to let go and lose himself in the succulence at his mouth, and maybe, Vergil thinks wildly, maybe if he stays at Dante's throat long enough, he’ll pull up not just blood but soul. He'll flood his mouth with the other half of him that lives inside of his brother. Complete himself with it. 

There’s a moment where Dante tenses, where his breath falters, where his fingers are tighter in Vergil's hair and then between them there is more wetness. Vergil registers it all dimly. He keeps on drinking as if to stop would mean to die. 

Somehow, at some point, in a puzzling feat of will that Vergil still hasn't figured out, the blind want soaring in his head eventually manages the impossibility of slowing down. Calming down. Letting Dante go. Sense returns to him, slippery and in shards but returning all the same. Vergil comes back to himself slowly, reluctantly, and it almost hurts to do so. His fangs retract in increments, grudgingly easing out of Dante's throat, blood spilling down Vergil's chin to join the rest of it already staining Dante's chest like spilled paint.

Even then, he continues to linger, licking at the lurid wound at his brother's neck, interrupting it as it tries to recede back into wholeness again. 

Dante makes a thin, jumbled noise. He's still and pale, a shade closer to the silver of his hair. He's _tranquil_ , lounging comfortably in a sated torpor beneath the shelter of Vergil's body, where Vergil would keep him always, safe and caught and all his.

When Vergil takes the curve of Dante's jaw in his hand, Dante stirs, eyes opening into unfocused slits. In a slurring murmur, he asks, “Y'good?” 

“For the moment,” Vergil replies. It's only as far as the blood-thirst is concerned. He's still stiff and unsatisfied between his legs, but soon enough he'll slip his hand down and Dante will spread open for him, will arch and take in his fingers, will arch again as Vergil sinks his cock into him the same time he sinks his teeth back into Dante’s throat.

Dante makes another sound, this one sounding vaguely disappointed. 

Vergil has to smile. "You wish I wasn't?"

"Yeah," Dante admits easily, a lazy pull to his lips. 

"I couldn't have asked for better prey."

Vergil means it, really. His smile grows when specks of orange-gold return to glimmer in his brother's pleasure-hazed eyes.

"Don't push your luck, Vergil." 

"Don't tempt me, Dante."

"Now that—that I can't help. M'just a naturally tempting guy."

Vergil scoffs, but doesn't deny it in the end. Even Dante isn't aware of how right he is. Vergil’s desire for him, not just for his blood but for his every little glance and irreverent smirk, every touch and taste and word that make him up, is a thing beyond measurement. It lacks any discernible beginning or end; knows only how to run on and on and infinitely on.

If he tried, Vergil could reach into his chest and wrap his hand around the hot, beating core of what he feels for Dante. He could press down on it till it gasps and suffocates and finally grows limp and cold and he is untouched by its fever forever. 

He won’t. It will never leave him. Vergil doesn’t want it to anymore. 

So he dips his head and presses his mouth to the pulse in Dante's throat for a long beat. No teeth or bite, just lips, just a human urge this time. A human gesture with human words in it. 

Dante makes that quiet sound again: relief, contentment. His fingers still in Vergil's hair comb through in light, pleasant strokes as he replies, "You, too." 


End file.
